The Ryno Pen

I’m breaking the strict run of chronology here: these events took place at the second of three charismatic churches I attended. To say things were a little woo-woo would be putting it mildly.

The events of Flag Madness, Vege Tales II, and Pork in Exile¹ hadn’t quite detached me from my tenuous hold on the place, but the byssus was starting to give way, a strand at a time. I’d walked out on a couple of speakers due to their propensity to spout arrant bullshit, including the wonderful paradox that is the “covenant” style of prosperity doctrine.

¹ -These episodes haven’t been written up yet: if non-chronological order is good enough for George Lucas, it’ll do for me.

Basically: The idea is that, when you do [whatever] (this can be giving 10% of your income, or more; sometimes “Claiming” with certain rituals or prayers), then God is compelled to [whatever this guy says will happen] (usually involving huge amounts of moolah, just like it happened to him!) .

Just want you want, a god so small you can push him around and make him do stuff on command!

I’d had a few unpleasant moments with the Hug Squad (a collection of 30s-to-40s women who lay in wait along the narrow corridor from the entrance to the stairs, nabbing all passers with greetings and hugs), and none of them were going to take any notice of my calm, reasoned request that they please do not do that. It was like a troop of scouts descending on an old lady who didn’t want to go over the road anyway. Well, kind of like that but with an air of inappropriate groping about it.

It was yuk, but that wasn’t enough to convince me to leave.

Even the doctrinal peculiarities of James King² didn’t present themselves as the metaphoric equivalent of a large stone-hewn Life Of Brian-titles sign saying: “EXIT“.

² - Not his real name, obviously.

The only bible JK believed in was the King James one. Okay if he’d kept it a matter between him and the God Who Saith “Thou” , but he took it upon himself to slide in next to me in the middle of a service and point at my more modern translation, then tell me in a series of hisses, pointy-finger-waves and a sea of pointless waffle, how only his KJV was the True Word.

Okay, this is Queensland, where the nuts come from, and I generally let it pass. Correcting ‘em only tends to annoy ‘em, after all. It’s a shame he had to keep on at me after the service.

Couldn’t tell me what a lot of the stuff in his own book was, could he?
Ouches, chambering, what “excessive bravery” meant - nah, not even the place to put Clue One.

(This picture will become a little more relevant further on…)

Not a great foundation of faith, an unknowable book… so JK’s next little enterprise probably follows as a matter of course.

JK’s wife gave birth to a happy little kiddie. Now the kiddie had a Visible Difference. It is hard to be a person with any difference or disability in many of the More Excitable Churches, and it’s probably even harder if you think the Old Chap Upstairs (or Downstairs, for that matter) has singled you out for Good Things or Tests Of Faith, when you’re just sitting in your part of the bell-curve between basket-case and Übermensch.

No, medicine was not enough: JK would compel God to fix it, with JK’s help of course. He eventually made contact with a bunch in the USA, who declared their people “divine healing technicians”. Again, this compelling God thing rears its ugly head.

I have paraphrased a snippet I found online: you become a “divine healing technician” by undergoing training. To graduate you need to cure someone, in Jesus Christ’s name, of a completely incurable disease.

Good-oh, then. I don’t know what became of him, but people in the churches continue to become ill and die. Must have the wrong bibles…

Of course, visiting circuses had their own version of the ringmaster-cum-clown:

The Heeeeeeeeeeeeeealer pushed me over the edge. Thanks to personal experience, I can provide a personal perspective which may show just how shabby some of this stuff is.

The Heeeeeeeeeeeeeealer may still be beating the boards and playing at Human Ninepins, for all I know. He has a long history of starting churches, leaving (or being booted out for having a wayward wiener on a couple of occasions), repenting, rehashing the act and going back on the game.

Around the time our story takes place, the chap was bounding back from his second major downfall. The senior pastor was a big softie where hard luck stories were concerned, and it only took a few words about the old reprobate’s supposed reform to get him gushing.

Within hardly any time at all, a guest spot was arranged, and The Heeeeeeeeeeeeeealer was out front, doing his schtick for all it was worth.

For a man who’d been born and raised in Australia, The Heeeeeeeeeeeeeealer would sound remarkably like an American bible-belter as he hit his working pace.

There were many speech mannerisms like repeating things three times - three times - three times!!!, and a sort of body-plus-speech emphasis on certain phrases which would be used like a hypnotist’s snappy fingers.

The “message” part of the show would not have been out of place at most tent-meetings or small charismatic-style churches. He could have left it at that, but The Heeeeeeeeeeeeeealer had a reputation among the people, and he must have deemed it necessary to uphold it.

He asked for people wanting prayer for ailments or problems. As far as I could tell (me being the King Of Bad Readers Of Body Language) he was homing in on those who looked uncomfortable or somehow out-of-sorts. Since I was up the back and avoiding eye contact, like a good Aspernaut should, it took him about a dozen point-at-person-and-call-them-out-front routines before he got around to me.

Now I should probably explain at this point that I have a physical disability of sorts. In 1996, I was climbing a ladder at a mate’s place, helping put a box of Christmas decorations into his ceiling storage space, when said good friend stopped holding the ladder, quite unannounced.

After a rapid trip to hospital, various indignities, and a few months off work, Your Humble Blogonaut walks like anybody else and lifts moderately big things, at least within limits.
There’s a little damage in my neck, and thoracic vertebra #12 is wedge-shaped instead of cylindrical. There are no visible signs of the damage, except some discomfort sitting or standing for prolonged periods.

I’m mentioning this because it has some bearing on the tale, coming fairly shortly.

Okay, so I am bad at refusing invitations in situations of potential threat or embarrassment. I should probably have gotten up and just kept walking.

I certainly didn’t feel any supernatural compulsion. My major emotion was concern: I knew this guy was into having people fall down, and my back can’t tolerate jerks. Still, out I went.

The Heeeeeeeeeeeeeealer was doing a sort of cold-reading. He didn’t need to do a lot of the preliminaries that stage psychics do: he had the “need“, “religion” and “can be compelled” boxes ticked, thanks to the people being in a Congregation Of The Excitable.

So, he came to each person, and after a bit of question-and-answer he would get a bit specific, speak some platitudes, then RAISE HIS VOICE and move right into the victim’s personal zone.

If they didn’t fall down at first, he repeated the last few steps. I’ve put a chicken’s head on the ground and drawn a chalk line away from the beak: isn’t nature wonderful?

I was about the last person in line. The great showman asked me (quietly) if I had a problem with my back or legs. He didn’t give me much time beyond a “yes”, when he suddenly became all theatrical and loud again, and started rabbiting on about…

my legs, and how they were of unequal length, and how, LOOK, my left (or was it right?) leg was GROWING and NOW THEY WERE EVEN!!!

Insert David Byrne Talking Heads Voice here:
“The same as it ever was,the same as it ever was…“
My legs were always bloody well even!

I felt a number of things:
1 - Cheated and cheapened;
2 - Like shouting “Bullshit!” and giving the game away;
3 - Fear - I was in a minority of one, and may have been crushed in a mosh-pit of devout loons trying to “drive out the demons” if I ruined the show;
4 - Like getting far from this farce and staying away.

I realised I wasn’t going to get away until the old charlatan had all he wanted, so I surreptitiously glanced over my shoulder to be sure a couple of beefy members of the Faithful were in range, and did my best Slow Pratfall. It hurt.

It wasn’t my last time in a happy-clapper church, but it was certainly my last time in that particular one.

There’s a few stories to go until Final Recovery. Thanks again for reading: it helps to get this stuff in front of others. I’ll pay at reception on the way out…

This entry was posted on Wednesday, August 15th, 2007 at 2:10 am and is filed under charismatic churches, ex-charismatic, ex-church, fundamentalism, hillsong, religion. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.